Ever since a co-worker told me about what happened to a friend of his after a Jack Johnson concert I knew it was my responsibility to you, my faithful blog-readers, to investigate. See, the story I heard was that, this guy received not one, not two, but no less than THREE phone calls from female acquaintances looking to hook up following a show by the laidback, acoustic-guitar-strumming, Hawaii-livin’ surfer dude. (I’m not sure if the phone-call recipient even went to the concert.) Other stories I heard were that something like seven women showed up for every guy, and that Jack Johnson wears garlands in his hair and emits rose-petals from his ass.

Okay, the latter is an exaggeration, but that’s the impression one would get about the guy who did the soundtrack to the movie version of Curious George. So what did I find at Thunderbird Stadium, the Vancouver manure field at which he played last night?

Well, there were girls–lots of ’em, and in varying degrees of cute. They seemed to come in pairs and threes, and were pretty excited at the prospect of seeing JJ. With Wingy in the lead—he was, after all, procurer of the tickets to the sold-out, outdoor love-in—we hobnobbed with a few of these, including: Trystan, Judiete, and Janice, who were worried about their friend (turned out she’d bought an invalid ticket from a scalper and might not be let in); and Colleen and Jessica, who pointed out the fact, in case we missed it, that the Jack Johnson T-shirt she was wearing highlighted her boobs.

But there were, or so it appeared, nearly as many guys at the show. Maybe word has spread, and the dudes had heard that something about Johnson’s mellow surf-sounds acted like an aphrodisiac on the fairer sex, reducing them to quivering masses of good (i.e. horny) vibes looking for a surferman substitute. Even more disturbing, however, was the number of families in attendance. Apparently, if you’re going to record a soundtrack to Curious George, the hippie parents are going to bring their offspring and set up a tarp so that the whole family can share in the good times.

If by now you’ve reached the conclusion that Jack Johnson tunes do not dominate my iPod, you have read between the lines. However, this isn’t the place to malign his fans or dis the guy, who is doing more for the environment than I ever will and is a happily married family man while I am an embittered ex-music journalist who is just now entering into what might be termed a mature, intimate relationship. (Well, here’s hoping…)

At any rate, the evening ended, as these types of evenings are wont to do, at Bin 941, our favourite late-night hang. The food, including a prawn-and-scallop dish, a portobello mushroom dish, and a chunk of halibut with a potato-and-chorizo side, was delicious, and the company fine. Pearly and I had picked up our favourite sidekick, young Crystal, who endured our bantering and Pearly’s liberties and innuendo (“Can I show him the picture of you sucking a lolli[pop]?”) with long-suffering good humour. She and Pearly argued about who caused a ruckus over a decade ago when two members of the band Radiohead played a small club and stopped the show because of a couple of noisemakers. Crystal said she had it on good authority Pearly had nothing to do with stopping the show, whereas Pearly maintained he did: “I was there. I was the cause. I know what I do.” (Radiohead just played in town, hence the reason the band’s name’s been on everyone’s lips.)

I don’t know why Crystal puts up with us, and I keep trying to get her to write this blog to explain her point-of-view vis-a-vis what it’s like to hang out with us, but though interested, so far she’s resisted. If she doesn’t soon, I might have to try writing this blog from her perspective, just for fun.

Next: the girls from Sweet Soul Burlesque put on a bikini car wash. I expect to have the cleanest car in Vancouver by Sunday.